The Mental Means
by sauroplex
Summary: Stark Industries has developed a very specific type of security.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** Stark Industries has developed a very specific type of security.  
**Characters:** Tony, Bruce, Ross, and a certain special agent  
**Notes:** Avengers movie canon up until the end of the movie. This is not AU, but there is a dose of Inception influence on how the plot flows forward. Familiarity with both The Avengers and Inception movies suggested, but if you don't know Inception, just keep in mind that people hack themselves into other people's dreams with SCIENCE, and I think you'll be able to navigate yourself through this fic okay.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:**1867

_Prologue_

"General."

"Stark. I'm glad that I finally managed to get a hold of you."

"Yes, congratulations," Tony praised, raising his glass of scotch to the video monitor before taking a sip. "You're talking to a very important, busy man."

"Busy trying to put me out of a job."

"Even if I do happen to successfully end all wars and need for armed forces, which I expect to accomplish by 2020, give or take a year – just in case you were wondering –, there will always be jobs in America for our honorable military leaders and tacticians. Particularly ones with resumes as packed as yours. Have you ever considered coaching rugby?"

Ross stared darkly at Tony through the display.

"I'm calling to request your response to the proposal I sent over earlier."

"Your proposal?" Tony parroted, furrowing his brows as he paused. Face suddenly brightening after a moment, he spoke, "Oh, are you talking about the one where you request production and purchase of a theoretical serum that can't actually exist? If I had realized you were serious about wanting me to assure you that pigs indeed cannot fly – not even when I pay them a whole lot –, I would have responded earlier."

"Cut the bullcrap. We know you've got it, and we've seen the results."

Ross submitted a file to the conversation, which Tony opened and perused in a moment of silence.

"J.A.R.V.I.S.?"

"Yes, sir."

"What have I told you about letting moles into R&D?"

"To not do so, sir."

"And if they manage to slip in anyway?"

"They are to be hit with a shovel when they are discovered."

"Well, hop to it then."

"Right away, sir."

Tony smiled toothily at the screen as he finally reengaged with Ross. "Don't mind us. I've been teaching my AI a little something about gardening lately, and pest control. Marketable skill, if you ask me. But to get back on topic, I still have no idea what you are talking about. You sure you've got the right guy?"

General Ross sighed heavily.

"Alright, Stark. Cards on the table. I want to use what you've got on the Hulk."

Tony quirked an eyebrow at this.

"Huh. If, hypothetically, there were such a serum to use on the big guy, you'd actually have to know where he was. So, you want a serum that doesn't exist to use on a man that's impossible to find. You, sir, are an idealist."

"Just because S.H.I.E.L.D. has had trouble locating Dr. Banner at present does not mean everyone else is experiencing the same difficulties. All I need from you is the serum; let me worry about my target."

The two men studied each other intently, each face passive and unnaturally blank.

"The last time you, Dr. Banner, and prototype serums mixed the Hulk happened. Why don't we all try learning from past experiences here and call it a day?"

"I want to use your serum to take responsibility," Ross retorted sharply, gaze fierce. "I want to use it to eradicate that beast from the consciousness of Bruce Banner."

Tony, bedecked in a causal Black Sabbath shirt and jeans, swept his arms wide from where he sat on a rather inconspicuous park bench, as he spoke, "Gentleman. Welcome to my mind. This is what I like to call a particularly well designed dream-scape."

Five men stood in front of him: four wore stiff military regalia with even stiffer expressions, while the remaining and noticeably shorter, less muscular fellow stood only a plain suit and maintained a countenance of harmless good cheer. Three of the soldiers glanced about themselves somewhat unsteadily, taking in the sights and sounds of the small, wooded environment they stood in – looking at couples passing by there, chipmunks scurrying among the trees here, and the occasional fly buzzing about their ears. The shorter man and the remaining undistracted soldier kept their eyes on Tony, seemingly unimpressed or uninterested with examining Tony's mentally constructed scenery.

"Some people can be so ungrateful for a good show," Tony commented with a light, tragic sigh.

The shorter man, in what seemed like a fit of politeness, began to calmly glance around his person, but the other soldier remained unmoving.

"Mr. Stark, a question," another soldier staring intently at a nearby tree raised his voice.

"I'll allow it."

"This tree even smells like a platanus. How do you program smells and the appropriate tactile sensation into each object? To make even a square kilometer-sized park with this level of realism seems like it would take at least on the timescale of weeks to construct."

"Well, Sanford, you've either got to be a genius, like me, or work long and hard at what you do. Isn't that always how the world works?" Tony asserted casually. "This setting took me about three hours to prepare, but since Ross doesn't want me doing shit on the mission, one of you will have to construct the dream-scapes when we actually do this for real. A waste of my talent and all of our time, I know, but what can you do?"

"Now," Tony continued, as the group of soldiers listened with severe poker faces, "let's see which of you is fit for mental architectural design. The guy who constructs the most accurately average log cabin wins the prize!"

Three of the soldiers and the shorter man quickly set about their tasks, various levels of mental strain visible in their expressions, as they tried to imagine up their cabins within Tony's consciousness. The fourth soldier did not appear willing to participate in the rampant festivities and only continued to stare silently at Tony.

"You're dedicated, I'll give you that," he solemnly informed the man, who regarded him silently. "I will call you Goober."

"My name is Smith," the man replied.

"And that's what I'll call you if you stop making googly eyes at me."

The man simply stared.

"Fine, Goober, let's take a gander at the results now, shall we? Or I will and you can watch me gander."

Tony wandered amongst the resulting cabins. Two were indistinguishable from piles of wood, but there were two others that actually had some shape and substance. Walking up to one that could have been the glossy picture on the front of a Lincoln Logs box, Tony regarded it curiously before licking it.

"So, who's the owner of this shiny baby?" he asked, and a red-headed soldier stepped forward.

"Reynolds," Tony drawled, regarding the man. "Not bad. Except your cabin tastes like chapstick."

The pale man colored heavily in the cheeks.

"If the architect of the dream is even a fraction as talented as me and doesn't screw up, you really shouldn't notice anything out of the ordinary," Tony spoke up again. "We're aiming for reality here, people. Dr. Banner is an observant, intelligent man and could be fooled by nothing less."

As he spoke, Tony strolled over to the final cabin that looked incredibly average. There was even a patch of mold growing next to the door that he poked with a finger.

'Who's responsible for this?"

"Present, Mr. Stark," the shorter man spoke up with a smile.

"Coulson. Right. Why are you even here again?"

"I am here to assist in any way I can, as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s official show of support for this mission."

"Sounds suspicious. Guys, doesn't he sound suspicious?" Tony spoke conspiratorially to the four soldiers. "I don't know if we can trust him."

"That's why we're here: to keep any potentially harmful influences in line," one of the men replied bluntly to Tony's babble. Even for soldiers, these four looked particularly muscular and battle hardened.

"Hear that, Coulson?" Tony hissed. "They're onto you."

"This includes you, Mr. Stark," Smith-Goober added, voice a deep, threatening bass.

"I find your suspicions concerning my character groundless and offensive," Tony responded with lazy indignation.

"What do you think of my work, Mr. Stark?" Coulson butted in smoothly.

"I'm not seeing any issues, which you should take as the monstrously high compliment that it is," Tony acceded, before turning back to the soldiers. "Four of you outdone by one S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. What would your boss say?"

Only Reynolds appeared at all affected by Tony's words. He bit his lipped and glared at his own work.

"I'll be practicing," the soldier muttered earnestly under his breath.

"You do that," Tony said, not appearing to care either way, as he began to stroll down a dirt path. "Let's take a walk, shall we?"

Tony guided the group out of the park and through the streets of his mental version of urban Paris, leading them towards a particularly large, well-guarded building. Five highly alert soldiers paced in front of the wrought iron gates blocking the entrance.

"The Élysée Palace," he explained offhand. "I got thrown out of here when I was sixteen after making one too many 'inappropriate remarks' to the French President's daughter. I suppose my entirely pure intentions were simply lost in translation. Let's see if any of you will fair any better. It's time to try out shapeshifting."

The men nodded shortly.

"Go off somewhere and change into some people that my consciousness would recognize as-"

It was right at this moment that the dream exploded.

The six men snapped to a state of cognizance simultaneously, as all eyes darted to the remains of the smoldering, black attaché case in the center of the table. A trembling woman in a singed lab coat stood frozen, one arm outstretched with what looked to be some type of scanner.

"Ah, yes," Tony spoke up in between yawns. "I guess I forgot to mention that if any unauthorized individual or influence comes in contact with the serum or me at any time during one of my visits to this base, the serum goes bye-bye."

Three of the four soldiers stared stonily at Tony, while the other seemed a bit too dazed to muster up aggression at this point. Coulson smiled.

"Well, this was fun," Tony broke through the silence cheerfully. "Same time next week?"

"Stark."

"General." Tony smiled with icy cordiality to the face once again on his video screen.

"I take it all preparations are finally in order?"

"That's what they tell me."

The general paused, seeming to mull over his thoughts for a moment.

"And there is no way I can convince you to remove yourself from the roster on this mission?"

"My product; my rules."

"Fine. I can deal with that – as long as you do not put yourself in the way of my goals."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Tony assured, throwing his arms out to the sides in a gesture of harmless innocence. "You paid me my money, and I've sunk months of my valuable time training your goons for this mission of yours. What reason would I have to stiff a loyal customer?"

"Do not try me. I am serious, Stark."

"So am I."

Ross stared intently at Tony through the video monitor for a long, heavy moment.

"I will see you at 0900 tomorrow."

"No you won't," Tony shot back smoothly. "I don't do early unless it's absolutely necessary – which it currently is not. We'll start at two."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary:** Stark Industries has developed a very specific type of security.  
**Word Count**: 3674

_Chapter 1: The First Level_

_Perspective: Bruce Banner_

Bruce sat in a coffee shop munching on a sandwich, as Harry Nilsson's Everybody's Talkin' played softly through the building's speakers. The lettuce was crisp, the tomatoes were almost sweet, and his teeth slipped right on through. It was a relatively good sandwich. Painless. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why that adjective came to mind though.

As he munched, Betty sat down beside him with a sandwich of her own, smiling prettily.

"How is it?"

"Betty!" he breathed and grasped at her wrist.

"That would be me," Betty spoke slowly, her expression turning quizzical, as she looked down at his hand and back up at him. "What's wrong?"

"I… you're here," he managed.

His mind flooded with concerns, questions, and scenarios. In his rush of thought something cracked and the world seemed to twist in on itself. Fuzzy colors and discordant music brushed past Bruce's senses and he distantly heard the sound of deep, monstrous roar before Betty's voice overrode it all.

"I promised I'd meet you here at two, so I'm here. I wouldn't miss a date with my boyfriend," she assured him, as she removed his grip from her wrist and softly enfolded their hands together. "Is the stress getting to you?"

"I don't… we're… boyfriend?"

Betty smiled a little. "I guess the boyfriend-girlfriend classification is little bit of an understatement, considering how long we've been together. What would you call us?"

"Estranged," Bruce answered immediately, his voice vibrating with as much tension as a taunt violin string.

Betty's smile faded. She looked like she was trying to make sense of a puzzle that was lacking some essential pieces. She frowned.

"Bruce, is there something you're not telling me?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Bruce replied, setting down his sandwich and turning his full attention to Betty. "Has it conveniently slipped your mind that I turn into a giant green rage monster when provoked? That your father is dead set on hunting me down? There has been no 'us' for years, and…" he paused and swallowed, "that I think it's better for you that way."

Looking at him with a mixture of concern and anger, like she couldn't quite believe those words had come out of his mouth, Betty snapped, "Alright, let's set that ridiculous giant green rage monster comment aside for now and focus on what you said about my father. 'Dead set on hunting you down'? What the hell, Bruce? He's been looking for you for weeks, but not in the ominous sort of way you're insinuating. He wanted to break the good news to you himself, but, seeing as how you're acting like a crazy, paranoid whack job, I'll tell you right here."

There was a strange buzzing in his ears as he listened.

"Bruce," she began, squeezing his hand tightly, "you're getting the Nobel Prize in Medicine."

"I… what?"

"My father has a friend on the committee, so he got to know a little early, and he wanted to be the first one to tell you. So you'd better do a class-act job seeming surprised once he actually 'hunts you down.' Got that? You have to stop running," she pleaded forcefully.

Suddenly feeling immensely claustrophobic, Bruce disentangled himself from Betty and stood, backing away a few steps from the table.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" he demanded.

"How could you even say that?" Betty asked, standing up and approaching his retreating figure with a furious intensity. "The progress you've made for treatments of radiation poisoning has saved countless lives. You have done so much good for the world, and it hurts to hear you say these things about yourself!"

"Just stop it, alright? The experiments I conducted for radiation treatment failed," Bruce yelled, his careful control over his temper fraying. "You know that better than anyone! That's why I became that… that monster!"

There was a fissure somewhere that was ripping at him. There was painful throbbing in his temples, and the more he tried to decipher this ridiculous situation, the more painful it got.

It was right about then that he noticed that all eyes in the café had focused in upon their fight. Even some pedestrians standing outside were staring in the window at the two of them. Wait, that wasn't quite right. They weren't staring at the both of them; they were just staring at Betty. And they looked angry. It was unsettling, but Bruce only had a moment to consider the situation before Betty once again spoke, apparently able to ignore the multitudes of daggers digging into her back.

"Your experiments were a success, Bruce. If the personal thanks of the Prime Minster of Japan for the aid you provided the victims of the Fukushima nuclear meltdown wasn't enough to confirm that in your mind, maybe this Nobel will," Betty asserted, staring firmly into his eyes, not appearing even to blink as she finally asked, "And what monster? I don't know what you're talking about.'"

All of a sudden, he understood. If what Betty was saying was true, this was supposed to be a world where he had never met the Other Guy. This was supposed to be a world where he was still together with Betty and on the road to winning the Nobel Prize. This was supposed to be a world where he had succeeded.

Closing his eyes, breathing deeply and rhythmically, Bruce dug around in his consciousness for his alter ego, but came up empty. He was angry and stressed and strained, but there was no destructive, hungry monster on the other side of those emotions. His mind was his own.

He felt sick.

"I…" he began, tugging at the neckline of his shirt in a subconscious attempt to grasp onto anything of tangible, real essence. "I have to go."

"Bruce! Wait!"

He didn't. He was out the store and running through the streets before he really had time to consider his decision – running past crowds of people, buildings, and a billboard with him and a sickly child that he didn't take the time read.

There was something tugging at him in the back of his mind – throwing away any eagerness Bruce might have initially been inclined to show at the sudden disappearance of the Other Guy. There were so many strange and knotted issues that had been all but thrust upon him and he needed to get away to think. He felt horrible for how he had treated Betty, but at the same time his instincts were pleading for distance. Bruce didn't trust her, and he needed to make sense of why.

Suddenly, he heard two pairs of footsteps take the chase after him. He quickly looked back to see not Betty, but a pair of large, formidable looking soldiers. They didn't exactly look ready to take him to a Nobel surprise party. In a world where he was no longer the Other Guy's alter ego what reason would there be for the army to be after him? Bruce's suspicions deepened considerably. This didn't make sense.

The sounds of a fight broke out behind him. He glanced back a second time to see what looked to be ordinary pedestrians ganging up on the pair of soldiers.

One of the soldiers quickly shouted into a walkie-talkie: "His subconscious is rejecting us. The occupants are attacking. Code 18. I repeat; we have a Code 18!"

Taking his chance while he had it, while he didn't quite understand what caused it to occur, Bruce ran quickly away from the commotion. A few blocks down, he hid on the second story of an abandoned building, catching his breath and gathering what wits he had left about him.

Bruce idly watched as a pair of spiders skittered away from his shoes and disappeared into the dust. Distantly, he wondered just when he'd become used to running, being chased, being simultaneously suspicious and under suspicion, even by those he cared for most.

Considering the setup Bruce had just witnessed, it was hard not to suspect that perhaps Betty had been collaborating with the soldiers. Her words in the café could easily be transformed into a convincing argument for Bruce's docile surrender. It hurt to even consider this, because Betty had always been the one person fighting for him. Selfishly enough, if a world without the Other Guy was a world where he couldn't believe in Betty, he wasn't sure he wanted it. He was feeling more isolated and alone than he had in a long time.

A sharp, low voice ripped through Bruce's contemplative silence and he crouched down lower into a corner, instinctively. "-no idea that this technology even exists!"

"Yet, he'll maintain the consistent skeptical mindset of a professional scientist. He doesn't have to understand the system to respond to the stimulus it provides in a rational manner," another voice chimed in – this one quite familiar. It sounded like Tony Stark.

"Plain English, Stark."

Well, there was Bruce's confirmation.

"He's not going to believe the cat's dead just because you tell him it is, Goober. He needs solid evidence. He needs to take that cat's pulse."

"The sedative-"

"Means he can't get to the big guy now, but doesn't have to mean he never could or never will again. He has one data point and a poor actor's word for it. There's a reason soldiers don't go on SNL."

There were talking about him. They had to be. Who else had an alter ego that could be controlled by a sedative that was of large concern to multitudes of determined soldiers? This had General Ross written all over it. Did that mean Betty and Tony were…?

Bruce cut himself off mid-thought and peered cautiously out the nearby window. He indeed saw a figure he knew. Tony walked swiftly down the sidewalk in the direction Bruce had just run away from alongside an aggravated soldier, who was peering sharply in all directions. This wasn't the same soldier that had chased him just before. This one had silver hair and a square, harsher jaw. Bruce wasn't all too eager to get caught by this one either.

"Since you know so much about him, why don't you tell me where he is?" the man demanded of Tony, tone dangerous and low.

"How would I know? Last time I checked my orders were to 'not engage with the target,'" Tony replied lightly, emphasizing his words with finger quotes.

"You understand what happens if you sabotage our efforts in any way, shape, or form, Mr. Stark," the soldier growled.

"Yes, yes, that's what you're here for, Goober," Tony patted the man on the shoulder in patronizing reassurance. "But you can't punish me for being a good boy, and that's all I've been today."

The soldier – Goober? – moved faster than Bruce could follow, and Tony's grunt of pain was the first hint he got that the man had just punched his friend sharply in the stomach. Tony wheezed, falling to his knees and coughing.

"I don't take orders from you," Tony's aggressor intoned darkly before spitting on the floor right beside his thigh. "Now stay put while I clean up this mess. Better pray that I don't find out you made it."

With that, the man ran off down the street, leaving a crumpled version of Tony behind him. After a number of minutes, a recomposed man pulled himself up off the sidewalk with a fragile dignity and walked across the street to what looked like a small restaurant, where he sat himself at an outside table and began to talk with a waitress. In no time, he had a cup of coffee in front of him, which he sipped slowly, deliberately.

Bruce found himself torn between revealing himself and staying put. He had only worked with Tony for three months before disappearing. It wasn't like they knew each other very well. The lab had been nice. Tony and Bruce in the lab had worked out nice, but it probably wasn't that memorable of a partnership where the Stark Industries heir was concerned. Maybe Ross had paid him a lot of… but Bruce couldn't see it. Tony had enough money to pick and choose his clients, so it couldn't have been the money… but what if the military had twisted his arm? What if they had threatened Pepper? If this was a situation where it was either Bruce or Tony's long term girlfriend, he couldn't see there being a contest.

Even so, right up until the day Bruce had made his quiet, unannounced exit, he had never felt unwelcome at Stark Tower – quite the contrary, if he were to be honest. While Tony had never said anything for or against Bruce leaving outright, Bruce had noticed that there always seemed to be a new, exciting, Bruce-specific machine added to R&D whenever he started getting a little antsy. Distracted as he was by the unparalleled research and experimental opportunities, the little cycle of guilty restlessness and subsequent reward had kept him working at Tony's side two and a half months longer than he had intended to, and in that time the engineer and the physicist had learned and discussed a sizeable amount about each other's specialties. Bruce still fondly remembered Tony's late night, slightly tipsy rendition of the 'oily and glorious battle' that was his creation of Dummy.

But maybe he had been a little presumptuous in interpreting these gestures of hospitality. What footing could he hope to be on with Tony Stark in this time and place? Bruce didn't know what he was expecting.

Having made the decision to run from Betty – _Betty_–, he had to ask himself why he wasn't having that same instinct with Tony, just after he'd seen the man with one of the soldiers that were hunting him, and hearing him give that soldier advice on how to rein Bruce in. The guy may have gotten punched in the stomach in the middle of the whole interaction, but the two men certainly hadn't seemed like they were on opposite sides of the tennis court in this match. Bruce massaged his forehead unsteadily.

That was the word for it: unsteady. There were too many variables fluctuating, uncertain, off-kilter in his mind. Something inside him – around him? – was off balance, and he knew off balance. Those first few weeks after the incident when he was first and brutally introduced to the Other Guy festering on the border between his conscious and unconscious mind were similar. It was like he could never quite maintain mental calm and equilibrium – as if his thoughts weren't assembling and flowing properly. There was an addition or intrusion somewhere beneath the surface like a splinter that was digging and itching and throwing him off.

His mind's response to this splinter had made him run from Betty. It had made him run from the soldiers who had chased him. But it didn't push him to flight from Tony. Rather, it demanded answers from the man that seemed to have them.

Tony hadn't talked like Betty had. He hadn't described impossible worlds and fantasies that were unarguably and eternally out of Bruce's reach - at least not yet he hadn't. Bruce didn't want sugarcoated platitudes; he wanted the truth.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he crept slowly down the flight of stairs. As he opened the door, Tony made eye contact with him almost immediately from across the street. His gaze was appraising and just a bit sad, but mostly appraising. After a few moments, he looked away and resumed sipping his coffee. Bruce walked a few steps forward, Tony ogled a lady who passed by his table, and Bruce stilled again. Seconds passed.

Finally Bruce crossed the street and sat down opposite Tony.

"Nice weather we're having," Tony spoke distantly in greeting.

"I hadn't noticed," Bruce replied softly, and ordered a sandwich from the waitress. He'd left most of his other sandwich untouched at the restaurant with Betty, and he liked to finish the things he started.

Silence fell over the table. Tony appeared lost in thought or just plain avoidant. Bruce found it hard to tell the difference sometimes.

"That punch looked like it hurt," he commented during a mouthful of sandwich. It was a dry sandwich – not nearly as good as his earlier one.

"You would think that," Tony acceded with an inherent magnanimity, not skipping a beat, "but that is only because I am a very good actor. Goober has low self-confidence, so I thought I'd throw the guy a bone."

"I'm sure that's what it was," Bruce agreed with a marked lack of conviction.

The two slipped back into silence, as the words Bruce needed to say bubbled up in him, like a transformation to the Other Guy endeavoring to happen. He felt like a whistling teakettle and he could tell Tony noticed by the way his eyes focused first on Bruce's pupils and then on his tightfisted grip on the side of the table.

"So I'm being hunted again," Bruce finally said, his own voice sounding strangely flat, even to his own ears.

"Seems that way," Tony agreed lightly. "How much did you hear from that little hiding place of yours?"

"Enough," Bruce replied, hesitant to lay all his cards on the table. He was well within reason to be suspicious.

Tony stared at him, waiting, measuring. He took another slow sip of coffee.

"Are you-"

"Am I what?" Tony interrupted him sharply. He raised an eyebrow in challenge, as if daring Bruce to finish that sentence.

That was Tony in a nutshell – expecting people to trust him implicitly even in a situation like this. Bruce breathed heavily into his sandwich.

"Nothing," he finally said.

Tony looked momentarily thoughtful. He then smirked lightly, almost flippantly, at Bruce before averting his gaze to the side, appearing to watch the people pass them by. None of them gave Tony a second glance, which Bruce found a little strange, because there were always at least a few wayward paparazzi whenever Tony was out in public. At least there always had been whenever Bruce had accompanied him around New York. It made him wonder.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"A land far far away," was Tony's vague reply.

"Tell me," Bruce insisted, grabbing ahold of the wrist that held the coffee cup. He was tired of feeling cornered and confused.

His fingers wrapped around Tony's bracelet. It looked similar to the Iron Man bracelets Tony had shown to have had stocked at Stark Tower. The man glanced down and flicked the space between Bruce's fingers roughly so that his fingernail hit the bracelet with a metallic ting that echoed loudly between them.

"Oops. Missed your finger," Tony commented mildly, yet made no move to retry his attack.

Bruce didn't understand that whole exchange one bit, but it seemed to be all he would be getting from an irritatingly enigmatic Stark.

"Sucks when you don't have your suit on, huh," Bruce spoke again tiredly, releasing his grip with a vaguely unsatisfied smile. "You can't just get up and fly away from things that bug you."

Tony's lips twitched upwards in what appeared to be wry amusement.

"I don't need my suit to extricate myself from sticky situations. I'm a genius, remember?" he chided with a hint of good humor. "The thing about geniuses – like you and, of course, me – is that they're smart enough to never end up where they don't want to be."

"How come I never got that memo?" Bruce asked, only half joking.

"Don't blame me," Tony retorted. "I put it on your desk at the lab."

They both fell silent at this. The unsaid accusation rang heavily in Bruce's ears, and he tried to shove his arguments and excuses back down his throat. Tony didn't want to hear it, he knew.

"It's been a while," he spoke, the words slipping awkwardly off his tongue. "Sorry I didn't keep in touch."

"I already have an abundant number of pen pals, thanks," Tony brushed him off, sniffing delicately.

Bruce chuckled at this, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding in.

"Are they your pen pals or your secretary's pen pals?"

Tony couldn't hide his smirk.

"If they penned Tony after the 'Dear' then they're my pal, regardless," he quipped. He then hesitated slightly before speaking again with a decidedly more calculated air than before: "Somebody will always find you eventually, you know that. With your unique biosignature, it's only a matter of time. And by losing touch with the people that don't mean you harm, you give the people that do a fairer shot. Really, you seem to be acting much more like an idiot than I ever presumed you had the capacity for."

Bruce smiled sadly. He hated wrapping up people in his problems; that's why he had left Stark Tower in the first place. However, there was a small, soft, guilty part of him that was grateful for Tony's presence and potential aid. Bruce was unsteady, and Tony was acting as a sort of anchor – an unruly, unpredictable anchor, which wasn't always the best sort of tether to have in stormy seas, but Bruce was comforted nevertheless. While it was hard to reject comfort, Bruce had gotten good at doing things that were hard for him over the years.

"Thanks," he said. "Really, thank you, Tony, but trust me when I say I know that better than anyone. All of it. That they'll find me; that I'm an idiot for running like I do. But here's the thing. If I disappear, it'll be less likely that people I care about will be around when my house of cards comes tumbling down, and that's the way I like it."

"Well, now you're just being downright selfish," Tony said in a way that was almost uncomfortably understanding.

"I know."

He was still smiling faintly as the needle plunged into his neck from behind and everything went dark.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary:** Stark Industries has developed a very specific type of security.  
**Word Count:**4753

_Chapter 2: The Second Level_  
_Perspective: Tony Stark_

Tony woke up with a groan and a pounding headache. This was the sort of headache you got after a night of heavy drinking or from being punched in the face. Considering the tall, angry Goober standing over him with a clenched fist, Tony was going to assume the latter. Unfortunate. If he had been drunk he might have managed to barf on Goober's shoes. Tony liked to rebel where he could.

"Your primary directive was to not engage with the target," Goober reprimanded sharply.

"This is how you treat the guy who distracted your target long enough for you to catch up to him and not fail in your mission?" Tony replied in a groggy, pained haze. He wasn't sure quite how many of the syllables where making it out of his mouth at this point. "What would you have rather me done? Tell him to shoo, so you could find him yourself?"

As Tony started to struggle to sit up, Goober stomped his boot heavily on Tony's chest sending the man flying back to ground. His head knocked painfully against the concrete beneath him and he barely contained a moan of pain.

"What did you tell him?" the soldier demanded.

The boot pushed down dangerously on his arc reactor, and all of a sudden Tony was electrifyingly wide awake. Dangerous tingles skittered across his torso.

"Nothing important," Tony assured quickly. "We just chatted about the weather and the pitfalls of not keeping in touch. Boring, mundane small talk. You know the drill, sergeant."

"I have half a mind to jettison you off the mission," Goober threatened, increasing his pressure.

Oh yes, that's right. Goober was under the impression that if you killed someone in the dream, they just woke up. Admittedly, that's how it had gone during training sessions, but in those sessions they had only entered the first level of dream-space. For this mission, there were three – a dream within a dream within a dream.

It was expensive to produce the serum that created multiple levels of dream-space, and the amount required to bring seven people down three levels had been quite a task to finish. Ross had been informed of this and the team had been assured that this other serum was being thoroughly tested and appeared to cause no considerably different side effects than those accrued from their limited training experience.

Technically, this was true, as far as preliminary testing was concerned, excepting the circumstance of death within the dream. His researchers had tested the theory with mice, and each time a mouse had gone under into multiple-level dream spaces and had been killed within the dream, it remained very much dead after the experiment.

Not that Tony was leaping towards any conclusions, but it probably wasn't really a good idea to get killed during this mission. Tony wasn't going to mention that to the team for obvious reasons – even with Goober's boot having its sadistic little way with his arc reactor. Tony guessed the man might be even more likely to crush his life support system here if he were informed of the inevitable post-dream implications.

"Trying to get rid of the one guy that actual got Banner to sit down and talk with him? Smart move," Tony wheezed out.

That got him. The pressure on his chest receded, and Tony sucked in an eager breath of air. However, the boot still pressed into his chest. It wasn't painful, but firm nevertheless.

"He does seem to trust you," the soldier acknowledged shortly. "Why don't you tell me how you got that to happen?"

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm incredibly trustworthy and likeable. Really, there is no substitute for being me," Tony explained, deadpan. The pressure on his chest began to increase again, which caused him to quickly add, "And I don't treat him like a gullible idiot. You guys really don't give him enough credit."

Finally, Goober deemed it time to remove his boot from Tony's reactor, giving him a swift kick in the holyfu-OUCH, before dragging the man to his feet. Tony swayed unsteadily, but managed to keep a confident smirk on his face – like this was nothing. If Goober wanted a pissing contest, Tony was happy to provide. The two men sneered poisonously at each other for a few tense moments.

"Follow me," Goober finally spoke and pivoted on his heel, walking swiftly down a corridor.

"What, not even a please?" Tony objected pettily, as he trailed along behind the man.

However, Tony's thoughts and concerns strayed far from Goober while he walked the plain, grey hallways and studied the walls, searching for surreal or inconsistent aspects and finding none. The architect had done his job flawlessly on this one. It was most certainly the military base that had been planned for construction on the second level of dreamscape, where the benched players could sit back, strategize, and observe. Tony wasn't very good at being benched. The difference between him and the five other men he was holding a sleepfest here with was that they played the game to accomplish their mission, while Tony played to win. Always had; always will.

Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass led Tony to a control room where Coulson and Reynolds looked busy and alert, typing away at their stations. The world must be such a drag when you don't have a J.A.R.V.I.S. to do your dirty work for you.

"Gentleman," Goober barked.

"Colonel Smith," the two replied in stuffy, humble unison.

"Agent Coulson, I would like you to make use of Mr. Stark's psychological expertise on Dr. Banner when advising Privates Jameson and Sanford in the field. Private Reynolds, you're coming with me."

Reynolds stood and, as he passed, saluted Tony, who flicked him in the forehead. The guy looked like a puppy who had been hit with a newspaper for a few ungainly seconds, before flushing lightly and rushing after Goober out of the room.

Wearing a self-satisfied smirk, Tony strolled towards Reynolds' vacated seat, plopped down, propped his feet on the control panel, and glanced over the information on the screen. He quickly scanned through the documentation on the proceedings thus far. In this level, Bruce was supposed to be playing golf with Sanford aka Ross, and Betty, whose character Bruce's subconscious had subsumed into this level from the portrayal Jameson had done of her on the previous dream-scape. Jameson was now in hiding nearby, regendered male, and ready to chase down Bruce if the guy made a break for it.

Tony considered it plain idiocy for Ross to insist his character ally with Bruce in the dream-scape. The Stark method of dream infiltration had proven to be able to change a victim's mindset to a degree, but Ross' demands would inevitably involve too much of a sudden 180 in Bruce's perspective to ever possibly work. Tony had read the guy's file. He knew what Ross had done in his attempts to capture the Hulk – what he had done to Bruce. Tony knew all too well, as his company had cashed in the checks.

Ross had less shame than Tony if he expected a game of golf and the fake words of his daughter to erase his committed indiscretions against a tortured scientist. What an ego on that guy. Not that Tony was complaining. Ross fucking up his own mission made it easier for Tony to accomplish his.

Tensions already seemed to be rising on the green, from what he could see on the video monitors. While the conversation Bruce, Ross, and Betty were having about Bruce's research flowed along steadily, Tony could see Bruce gripping his golf club with white knuckles like he was about to whack Ross in the head with it. He silently cheered the guy on.

"So, what do you think?" Coulson asked.

"I love what you did with the place," Tony replied, before adding generously: "Almost as good as what I could have come up with."

Coulson smiled blandly as he replied, "This level was not necessarily under my jurisdiction, Mr. Stark."

According to an earlier briefing, it had been decided that either Coulson or Reynolds would have sole responsibility over the construction of each level. However, Tony was purposefully kept out of the loop when it came to who would be responsible for each dream-space, because Ross was a paranoid quack – not that it wasn't obvious to Tony whodunit after a quick little study of the handiwork.

"And it is quite possible that I could not be considered universally good looking, but those are the sort of astronomically low probabilities that sane men don't concern themselves with."

"Have it your way," Coulson acceded lightly, before amending, "But that wasn't what I was asking. What is your opinion on the current mental state of Dr. Banner?"

"Oh, well," Tony began, searching for the right word. "Shitty."

Sighing, Coulson turned on the intercom, and spoke, "Private Sanford, this is Agent Coulson. Dr. Banner still appears agitated at your presence. Try and…"

Coulson trailed off and looked at Tony expectantly. Tony didn't know what the guy was thinking – asking for cooperation from him, of all people.

"Strip," Tony suggested. "And shimmy a little."

Coulson only paused for a moment, before adding, "I think Mr. Stark's on the right track."

Tony stared skeptically at a man he'd never claimed to properly understand. That was more up Pepper's alley, apparently.

"You need to let loose a little more," Coulson continued. "I'm sure Dr. Banner can perceive most of the tension and fear that you think you're hiding. He knows what he does to people, and he's not going to let you close if he thinks he's doing it to you."

After only a moment's pause, the General Ross on the video monitor let out a short but light laugh.

"What are we doing here?" the man asked gruffly, as he took off his decorated military jacket and draped it on the golf cart beside him.

He strode up to Bruce who looked about ready to turn into smoke at a moment's notice. Ross put a hand on each of the pale scientist's shoulders with a warm, friendly insistency.

"We're acting like strangers when I should be treating you like a son," Sanford said with an exquisite mixture of roughness and gentleness.

Tony had to hand it to the guy. He was trying. He had stripped and he was trying, but Tony would happily bet his tower that Sanford was going to fail. Looking at Bruce's face, he saw nothing but suspicion, fear, and anger.

"You're pushing him into a corner he doesn't want to be in," Tony spoke up casually. "Not a good idea, fellas."

Coulson eyed him with a short nod, before speaking again into the intercom, "You're being too aggressive, Private Sanford."

Quickly heeding Coulson's advice, Sanford removed his hands and stepped back. However, he soon paused in his retreat as his heel met with a raised bump on the green. He turned around to witness a mound of grass shudder, grow, and elongate. The strange pile stretched upwards to the sky, forming the shape of a monstrous, muscular, green arm. Grassy fingers curled into a fist that slammed mercilessly into the torso of General Ross, smashing him into the ground. Without a moment's pause, the fist scooped up the broken, limp body and sunk back down into the grass, leaving behind only the fresh pool of blood, scraps of organs, and shards of bone that blanketed the green. A low, furious roar rippled through the very fabric of the dream-space, smothering Betty's scream.

"Well, Sanford surely must be awake by now," Coulson commented, swallowing once.

Tony wasn't about to disabuse the guy of the notion; he really didn't want to think about the implications lying around there. Instead, in a mixture of muted wonderment, he kept his attention on Bruce. The guy was deathly pale and kept looking at his own arm, as if expecting it to suddenly sprout gigantic green muscle. Finally Betty's sobs seemed to reach him and he looked at her, down on her knees, crying into the pool of her father's remains.

"I'm… oh god, I'm…" Bruce stammered painfully.

"Bruce," Betty said, slowly looking up at him with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. Her mouth was squeezed into an agonized grimace, but there was strength there as she responded, "Don't you dare take the blame for this. I saw it all and this wasn't you. I don't know what it was, but it wasn't you. Just… I need you to be here for me, okay?"

Like a punch to the gut, Betty's words had Bruce sinking to his own knees, his fingers gently threading through her hair. She shuddered and leaned onto his chest. They embraced silently.

Honestly, Tony had been expecting the Hulk. As he had personally worked on perfecting the serum for the mission, he'd gotten Coulson to figure out what sort of cocktail the army was using to keep the big guy under. With that intel, Tony created a specialized serum just for Bruce that theoretically would work simultaneously to immerse him in the Stark-patented dream-space and unlock the shackles containing his inner green giant. All Tony then had to do was get Bruce to unleash the Other Guy down under and smash them all at of this nightmare. Not that his team or the general were aware of any of these shenanigans, obviously.

While Tony had most certainly been expecting the Hulk, he sure as hell hadn't expected him like this – ripping his own merry way through dream-space like it was nobody's business, and in a separate physical form than Bruce, no less. Originally, Tony had been planning on keeping his distance and playing nice with the soldiers until the third level, where Bruce would be most likely to hold and control the most distinct connection with the Other Guy, but this second level seemed rather promising at the moment, despite the Hulk's unique manifestation. Goober was distracted, the big guy was bubbling up near the surface of Bruce, and Tony could do this.

With a quick pat on the shoulder to Coulson he said, "Distract the others for me. I'm going over to Banner."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Coulson replied mildly.

"That's m'boy," Tony said, and made to leave, before his guilt made him reconsider. "Oh, yes, and I would highly suggest that you avoid death in these deeper levels, if possible. Just not a good idea."

Speeding off before he could get a response, Tony quickly strode out of the base and onto the golf course. From outside, the building looked like a normal country club restaurant. There were even waiters serving club members posh meals out on the patio. With a quick smirk and wink to the security camera, Tony flipped on a pair of shades, commandeered a golf cart, and left the army behind.

Conveniently enough, by the time he arrived at the crime scene, Bruce still hadn't moved. It was only when Tony's shadow draped impressively over the couple that Bruce looked up, momentarily afraid, until he saw just who it was that had interrupted.

"Tony?" he asked, the 'What are you doing here?' heavily implied.

"Hey there, Bruce. I heard some rumors about a Hulk sighting in the area, and, being the big fan of Jolly Green that I am, I just had to come and check it out."

"He just killed a man!"

"I noticed that you said 'He' instead of 'I' just there," Tony pointed out. "Not that I'm complaining. I've always told you to stop being such a guilt mogul when it comes to the big guy."

"That's… I…"

"Who are you to talk to him that way?" Betty cried, removing her face from Bruce's sleeve in order to glare sharply at Tony. "My father just died. Can you please leave the two of us alone?"

Ignoring her outburst completely, Tony casually asked, "So what would you say if I told you that you're dreaming right now?"

Bruce looked at Tony with a mixture of befuddled irritation. After a moment, his lips shrank into a thin line and he looked around and upward, considering. His arm slipped away from Betty's shoulders as he ran a hand through his hair.

"I'd say that, now that you mention it, it seems very likely."

Good man. Tony offered Bruce a hand, which he took, and clapped the guy fondly on the shoulder.

"Life is so much easier when I don't have to constantly explain myself. Most of the time, it's like I'm writing my autobiography while simultaneously living it," Tony complained cheerfully. He liked it when people could keep up, and Bruce still managed to do so even in an unnatural arena such as this. Tony was a big fan indeed.

"The sky has that green tinge to it that it always does in my dreams," Bruce added quietly. "I guess I forgot to look for it."

Tony immediately glanced upward at this, and found the truth in Bruce's words. The sky was calm with a few scattered clouds, but not quite peaceful. The scene was draped in a soft, yet ominous green. Huh. He was confident that that color hadn't been in the sky during the first level. This was one more piece of confirmation that the Hulk was significantly more present in this deeper plane of dream-space.

"So, what do you want from me this time, Dream Tony?" The man was watching Tony ogle his mind's influence on the Coulson-constructed troposphere with a small, amused smile.

'This time'? Tony mentally filed that phrase away for later questioning, before replying, "I'll level with you here. I'm actually Real Tony." Bruce quirked an eyebrow at this and looked about ready to speak, before Tony barreled on, "Let me finish. I had a little pet project in R&D that was going to let people do ride-alongs in each other's dreams, and Ross got a whiff of this."

Bruce's eyes darted to the pile of destruction on the grass beside him. "Was that…"

"No, not Ross. One of his soldiers. Yeah, the real people can shape shift in here. Watch out."

This statement was met with immediate suspicion of Tony's own person. He smirked at Bruce's justified response and spread his own arms out wide as he offered, "Ask or otherwise test me in any way you'd like, and I'll prove my legitimacy as the one and only Tony Stark within a confidence interval of six sigma. No disappointment; no disillusionment. Guaranteed."

After a moment of contemplation, Bruce asked, "When's my birthday?"

Dammit. "You know, I was expecting something along the lines of a marvelously complex engineering question. The likes of which only a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist could be expected to answer. Yet you ask me your birthday."

"Just answer the question."

"I want another."

"Tony."

Well, maybe he could get lucky. He had a .3% chance of success here, and he'd worked more out of lower odds – probably. "Juu-April… 9th…" he paused to study Bruce's mask of an expression. "14th? Hell if I know."

"Good to know it's really you, buddy," Bruce said with a small smirk. "Ross has a lot of power in the military. I wouldn't put it past him to get a top scientist to emulate you if he could manage it, so testing your smarts wouldn't tell me much, but I also trust Ross to get his soldiers studied up on their target, even the mundane stuff: their favorite pizza topping, allergies, all that. Things that don't seem to be high on your list of things to remember."

Well, goody. Bruce had accepted that it was actually him. This might not have happened the way he had planned it… See, he had given Bruce a clue in the previous dream-space about the personalized sound of his Iron Man bracelet. Made in reality and redesigned for dream-usage specifically by Tony, it made a sound that might as well have been patented by Stark Industries, considering how unique it was to the particularly cultured ear. Bruce could have flicked his bracelet, heard that sound, known that no mortal could have reproduced it quite like Tony could, and acknowledged his one and only Tonyness. But no.

"You play dirty," Tony acceded, peering at the man sourly over his sunglasses. "What's my birthday then?"

"How would I know?" Bruce didn't even have the decency to look abashed.

Feeling strangely comforted by this, Tony spoke airily, "It's publicized like mad every year. My birthday shindigs are always the talk of the town. Don't you read the society pages?"

"They don't have many of those where I go," Bruce replied with a shrug.

"Is that a point of annoyance for you? Your lack of newspapers? I hope it is," Tony said, quickly changing gears to business. "The thing is I need you to get angry for me. We need the big guy."

"And why do we need him exactly?" Bruce asked, taking his turn to peer inquisitively at Tony over his own glasses.

"If you hadn't already guessed, General Ross has you," Tony hesitantly admitted with a studiously calm expression. He didn't like saying it to Bruce; he didn't like saying it to himself. It left him with a bitter aftertaste. "His army goons had the Other Guy sedated, but the serum I used to hack into your dreams also has a little pick-me-up for your green, mean alter ego-machine stashed inside it. He's your ticket out of this military base they've got you holed up in."

Bruce nodded slightly, before glancing down and suddenly appeared startled. "Where'd Betty go?"

Tony wasn't quite sure when and how it happened either, but Betty was indeed gone. And he certainly had his theories.

"After your enlightening conversation with me, I'm sure your consciousness recognized her as fake and booted her out," Tony suggested cavalierly. "Though if she were still here, I'm sure she'd agree entirely with my suggestion."

"She wasn't…." Bruce struggled. "There was something off about her the whole time that I couldn't quite come to grips with. I'm…"

He paused, seeming to realize all of a sudden that he was talking to Tony, and muted himself with an awkward smile. Feeling miserably protective of the ragged man, Tony kicked him in the shin.

"Ow!" Bruce exclaimed, staring accusingly at Tony.

"The sooner you get angry, the sooner you can go to your girlfriend for real, so hop to it," he ordered dismissively. "We're sort of on a dangerously tight schedule here, so any day now would be nice."

He tapped his watch with a pointed eyebrow quirk. Agent Coulson was a reliable guy, but there was only so long Goober would be deterred, Tony was sure. He didn't want that guy anywhere near his arc reactor in the near future, and Bruce was currently the solution to that.

"Fine," Bruce sighed, appearing to begin to hone his mental focus. "But just so you know, she's not my girlfriend anymore, and I'm not going to see her, so don't start getting any ideas."

Bruce didn't want Tony messing with his 'I'm an angsty lonely man who will sacrifice my chance at love and happiness for the greater good' thing he had going on. Fine. He could want all he wanted, and Tony could do whatever Tony wanted. He always did.

In the short time that Bruce had stayed at Stark Tower, the two scientists had spent some long, entertainingly productive nights in the lab. Nights too often turned into early mornings, and it was inevitable that one or both of them would start snoring in each other's presence at some point. Most of the time when Bruce was the one who conked out first, it was hard not to notice the nightmares. He twitched and moaned and muttered, begged them to stop and leave him alone. Tony wondered if he slept in a similarly haunted way, but he'd never been in the mood to ask Pepper or Bruce about it.

There was one night where Bruce woke himself up from his own dream with an agonized scream. His eyes had shot open, glowing emerald, as he locked gazes with Tony from across the room. They stayed like that for a few heavy moments, with only Bruce's heavy, shaking breaths filling the silence of the lab. Finally, Tony had strode over to Bruce's table and offered him the bag of almonds he'd been munching on over by his own work.

"I'm here," Tony had said, because that was all he could think of to say, and Bruce had simply nodded and reached a hand into the bag.

After a large, carefully chewed mouthful, Bruce had spoken up, "I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm sure you know as well as I do that dreams bring you back to that place where no one can help you. It's just you. You and your mind that knows all your worst fears and weaknesses and regrets."

Tony knew all too well.

That did not mean he had left the issue alone after that, however. It was the impetus gained from that talk that had him starting his dream infiltration project over at R&D. Maybe, if he got this done right, Bruce wouldn't have to battle himself alone during slivers of night.

But then, Bruce woke up from what seemed like a particularly monstrous dream and was gone the next day. Dummy found the note he'd left on the fridge two weeks later. Why the hell he would write a hand-written goodbye note when Bruce knew an email that Tony actually checked was beyond the limits of even Tony's vast intellect to comprehend. It was as if the idiot didn't want people to notice his rushed, hush-hush disappearance. The nerve.

However, instead of stopping his work with the vanishing of his intended subject, Tony continued along like nothing had changed, and he liked to think it really hadn't. Tony could still finish this serum, track Bruce and keep the man on his radar, and then one day show up and prove to Bruce that it didn't have to be like this. Prove it to himself.

Things didn't pan out, though. Despite his best efforts, Tony couldn't locate Bruce, unlike a certain bloodthirsty general. On top of that, the very same general wanted to use the stuff Tony had created to solve Bruce's nightmares in order to propagate more of them. No, this hadn't worked out the way he'd wanted it to at all, but that could be fixed, as it currently was in the progress of being.

Tony watched silently as Bruce focused on bringing out the Other Guy. In a strange, fucked up way, he had gotten his wish. He was in Bruce's dreams, fighting for his safety. It was times like these that he got the distinct feeling that life was flicking his genius the bird. Well, screw life. Tony Stark was larger than it.

After a strangely long time, Bruce opened his clearly not-green eyes. There was worry there and uncertainty.

"I can't reach him," Bruce said hesitantly. "He's not there."

"What do you mean he's not there?" Tony asked, undeniably tense. "We just saw him smash up Ross's doppelganger. He's sure as hell here."

"Yeah, but I couldn't even feel him then, Tony," Bruce explained, voice strained. "It's like he's separate from me in this place somehow, mentally as well as physically."

"Well fuck, you've got to try harder!"

"It's not going to…" Bruce trailed off as he looked at the expression on Tony's face.

"I hate to break it to you," Tony said roughly. "But this. Right here? Right now? It's the only chance we're going to get."

Jameson, of course, knew he was here. He was on the lookout. Jameson would tell Goober. Maybe Goober already knew. If they waited until the third level to try again Tony was royally fucked.

"Okay," Bruce said, his expression drawn and tense.

The doctor settled into a lotus position on the ground, his pant leg nearly dipping into the blood beside him, as he meditated.

Tony paced and watched and paced some more. He crouched down and desperately considered punching Bruce in the family jewels. He didn't have time to act on the thought however, as a sudden gunshot came from behind. Before he even had time to process it, there was a bullet in his brain and Tony Stark was dead.

_To Be Continued..._


End file.
